In Case of Emergency
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Sam's away at college and both boys learn to cope without the other, but nothing is easy for a Winchester.
1. Chapter 1

Title: In Case of Emergency 1/3

Summary: Sam's away at college and both boys learn to cope without the other, but nothing is easy for a Winchester.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even for Christmas.

A/N: This fic is written for ObuletShadowStalker in the SFTCOL(AR)S Secret Santa Fic Exchange. The other two parts should be up before Christmas--I'm doing my very best! The prompt was a lot of fun to work with, so I hope she enjoys :)

-o-

Sam never realized how much he liked _normal_ until he didn't have it anymore, until he wasn't _allowed _to have it anymore. When it was out of his reach, there was nothing he wanted more. He missed being allowed to have friends, being allowed to play, being allowed to be a _kid_. Now, everything was about training, training and hunting and keeping secrets. Sam hated it.

True, he wanted to be like his dad, strong and gruff and brilliant. And he wanted to be like Dean, fearless and quick and apt.

But he was only Sam, and Sam also wanted to do well in school, wanted to make friends, wanted to play sports.

Fortunately, school came easily to him, so that wasn't a problem. Friends were hard to make and harder to keep with the rate at which they moved and the fact that Sam wasn't allowed to have people over, nor was he often allowed to visit them. That left school and other school-sponsored activities for socialization.

Activities like sports.

Not only could sports help him make friends, but they were fun. They required skill and stamina, just like hunting, but without the danger, without the constant fear. _That_ was what he wanted.

It seemed perfectly reasonable in his mind, but the minute he asked his dad if he could join the baseball league, he knew the answer wouldn't be positive.

"Sports are dangerous," his dad replied gruffly.

Sam's jaw dropped. He'd foreseen many objections from his father, but _danger _hadn't been one of them. "Dangerous? Sports are dangerous?"

His father eyed him blandly over the top of the paper. "You heard me."

"Dad, hunting is dangerous. Monsters and spirits are dangerous. Sports are just fun. They can even help me keep in shape."

John took a drink from his coffee mug. "A training regimen is better for that."

Sam rolled his eyes. "But not nearly as much fun."

"Believe it or not, Samuel, training isn't about having fun."

The sigh that escaped Sam's lips was petulant and frustrated. "Trust me, I'm getting that."

"You're too old for this, anyway," John told him simply. "I let you play your silly little games when you were a kid. But you're a teenager now. When Dean was your age, he was already out in the field, helping me out. It's time for you to start pulling your weight around here."

"You never let me go with you," Sam protested.

"Because you never train," his dad countered emphatically.

Logic was getting him nowhere. Sam felt defeat looming in front of him. His father would not be swayed by attempts at reason. Sam employed the last thing he had: eliciting sympathy.

Eyes wide, sad, and desperate, he beseeched his father's face. "Please, Dad," he said, keeping his voice soft. "I really want to play."

John looked up, meeting his imploring gaze over the paper. Then his eyes dropped. "No," he said shortly. "Now go get ready for some target practice. Have Dean take you out. When you've hit fifteen, you can come in."

Sam swallowed his cry of protest before he let it escape. It wouldn't do any good. He wasn't ready for a yelling match--not now, not over this. Shoulders sagging, he fought the stinging in his eyes. Gulping in a shaky breath, he managed a tremulous "Yes, sir."

-o-

The music was loud and the day was hot for mid-October. The windows were open, but no breeze graced the room, which was nothing more than a 12 by 12 oven, in Sam's estimation. It was barren and dingy; the smell never seemed to leave. Sam was pretty sure there was something growing in his roommate's dirty dishes, still piled in the lone sink they shared.

The dorm floor was noisy and the building itself was old. To keep things ventilated, Sam found that an open door usually did the trick, though that usually invited raucous visitors and allowed all the noise from the hall direct access to his room. There were times when it seems like a 24-hour party, and Sam had to remind himself that this was Stanford.

It wasn't all bad, despite appearances. Having lived there for nearly two months now, it felt more like home than any other placed he'd ever lived. The communal bathrooms were a pain, but at least he didn't fear retribution from his big brother. He guarded his bottle of shampoo, though, regardless.

He had a bed and he had a desk, which was really all he'd ever needed. With his student ID, he had access to all the books in the world, free of charge. His full ride covered housing expenses, (though it had never specified the quality of the housing). But it was close to campus, and it was his.

His and his roommate's and the two dozen other guys who occupied the floor, that is. But this was Stanford, Sam's shot at freedom, his shot at life, and he couldn't let himself regret that.

That didn't mean it wasn't lonely. He'd walked out so fast that it'd never occurred to him just what he was leaving. Part of him had always thought it would never come to this, that his father would understand, that he could have both his family and his dreams.

But it hadn't worked out that way. And, in the end, he hadn't had a choice. He just wanted both, he needed both, and his father had backed him into a corner one too many times. He was suffocating there. Now he was flailing apart from them. Cut off from his father, from Dean, from everything he'd ever known--it was a high price, one he didn't know if he'd make again, but one he tried to keep convincing himself was worth it.

Sighing, he let the thought escape him, trying to focus again on his textbook. The one thing he could do, the thing he could control, was studying. His grades had gotten him this far; they were all he had to keep him going.

His grades didn't help him make friends, though, and he found that his roommate was gone more often than he was around. Eric Monroe was from San Francisco--a party boy, from everything Sam saw of him, and probably an inherent genius if Sam could guess from the grades he saw scrawled across his papers on his desk. Eric was friendly and had invited Sam on more than one partying binge, despite Sam's repeated refusals. Clearly, he found Sam to be a stiff, though he never said so, and Sam couldn't help but wish for the quiet and solitude he had so often found in the motel rooms his father dragged him to.

The other kids on the floor were equally friendly, though more focused on playing games and performing pranks than studying. In all of Sam's extensive training, in all of his yearning for normalcy, he'd never known the first thing about living like a normal kid. Goofing around didn't come naturally, and social situations made him feel awkward and glaringly out of place. Which, really, seemed about right--to finally have what he wanted and to not know how to enjoy it.

A series of whoops erupted in the hallway, and Sam forced himself to focus. The only thing he could do was study. It was his only outlet. The only thing he knew.

With a resolved furrow of his brow, Sam started to read again, forcing his mind to take in the details of the French Revolution.

Before he got very far, laughter sounded again from the hall, closer now, and Sam contemplated shutting the door. He might have done it, despite how antisocial it would seem and how easily the small room would become a sauna, but the chatter from his floormates grew closer until Eric was flying through the door and flopping on the bed.

"Dude, we've been thinking," he said.

Sam looked up, his eyebrows raised. Eric was lounging on his bed, looking at Sam. Other boys were framed in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"Well, see there's an intramural league," Eric explained. "For football. And the guys on our floor are pretty short."

Sam eyed the crowd again. Eric stood only to a meager 5'10'' and the other boys seemed to top off around 6 feet flat. "Yeah?"

"Well, we're going to need someone bigger," another kid chimed in, Adam from across the hall.

"And the only tall guy on our floor is you," Eric concluded.

That sunk in and Sam's face stayed blank.

Eric contnued. "We need you, Winchester. Be on the team with us."

They were inviting him to play on the team. They wanted him to participate. No matter what their reasons, Sam couldn't deny how good it felt to be wanted, to be needed. He opened his mouth to reply, but Eric cut him off.

"I know you're worried about school," his roommate said. "But it's not that big of a commitment. Just a few nights a week."

He closed his mouth, feeling a flush rise in his cheeks. They were inviting him to play on a team, to be part of the group. It was something he'd longed for, dreamed about, and he'd been so lonely. "I haven't played much football," he admitted sheepishly.

"Doesn't matter," Eric assured him quickly. "It's easy enough. And I've seen you, Winchester. You pick things up fast."

The flattery was shallow, and Sam recognized it for what it was: an attempt to sway him. It had no real basis.

It didn't matter.

The ache in Sam's soul, the yearning for companionship, to be part of something--he hadn't realized how strong it was until it was being offered to him. He'd be an idiot to say no. "Sure," he said, a smile spread across his face. "Why not?"

There was a small eruption of clapping, and Eric grinned widely at him. "Great," he said. "We're going to practice on the quad in a few hours. You'll be ready to go then?"

"Yeah," Sam said with an emphatic nod. "Yeah."

Eric stood, slapping Sam on the shoulder. "Great," he said. "Good to have you on board, Winchester."

As the guys exited the room, Sam's smile flickered. It wasn't family, not even close, but it was the closest thing he'd had in months.

-o-

When Sam got to the quad, the guys were already there. They were a motley group, unshaven and wearing baggy shorts and grungy t-shirts. Some were standing around talking, while others tossed footballs back and forth, trying to imitate moves they'd seen from Sunday afternoon pro games.

The sight almost made Sam pause, almost made him want to turn around and never come back. He's yearned for this so long, to be a part of it--now that he was so close, he was almost afraid to touch it. His childhood had been a long lesson in not forming attachment, in separating himself for his own safety, and old habits died hard, even when he had sacrificed everything to get away from them. His father's hold on him wasn't severed just because he'd walked out of the house.

"Hey, Winchester!" a voice called, and Sam's attention shifted back to the moment. Eric was calling to him. "You ready to play?"

Sam grinned, a little nervously, and jogged toward his roommate.

Eric tossed the ball in a smooth rotating arc, and Sam moved to catch it. It was high, and he was headed in the wrong direction. He reversed, altering his trajectory, then pushed up into the air, nabbing the ball easily.

Pulling it down, he cradled it to his body, resuming his jog toward Eric.

"Not bad," Eric said, his eyebrows raised. "You sure you never played before?"

Sam shrugged. "I didn't have much time for sports."

"Always the studier, I take it," Eric said.

Sam tossed the ball back at him with a forced smile. "Something like that."

"You know the rules, right?"

"Of course," Sam said. Down time was rare in the Winchester household, but even the great John Winchester couldn't resist a Sunday afternoon of football. With only one TV in the sparse motel rooms they shared, it often became a family viewing.

"We'll be playing two-hand touch," Eric said. "Some contact is inevitable, but we're can't tackle, because we'll be going without pads. Our floor has a history of getting killed in these things. We're hoping to reverse the trend this year."

Sam nodded seriously. "So what should I do?"

"We're just warming up," Eric explained. "Then we'll scrimmage and figure out our positions. Our first game is next week, and we'd kind of like to make a good showing."

Sam merely nodded, not sure what else was expected of him.

"Go long," Eric said, nodding out toward the open yard.

That was an easy order to follow, and Sam set out in a straight path, turning his head back occasionally as he did. When the ball was thrown, Sam was ready, and he compensated, shifting his pace and his path, dodging the other boys practicing.

Then the ball was there, and his hands circled around it. His momentum propelled him forward, and he pulled the ball snuggly to his torso as he finished off his run.

He was so focused that he barely heard the clapping and cheers until he was walking back.

The other boys from his floor were watching him, clearly impressed. "Nice catch, Winchester."

"Impressive."

As he made his way back toward Eric, he could see the look of pleasant surprise on his roommate's face. "Well," Eric said. "Looks like we found our wide receiver."

Pride swelled in Sam, flushing his cheeks with embarrassment. Praise wasn't something he was used to, feeling useful wasn't something he often experienced. He'd spent so much time being afraid, being not good enough, being a disappointment. It was the story of his life, a long and hard story that he didn't like to retell and that he'd been trying hard to forget.

It hadn't been all bad, Sam knew that much. But it had been more bad than good, and Sam needed more.

Sam needed this.

The shy smile on his face was real for the first time in months, maybe years. He flipped the ball back toward Eric, and said, "So, what next?"

-o-

They practiced every night. Nothing strenuous or stressful, just mostly good natured competition. Sam retired to his room each night sweaty and tired, which reminded him strangely of home.

He had to stay up later to compensate, using the later hours of the night to finish his coursework, and he discovered the beauty of Eric's coffee machine. It made crappy coffee, but the caffeine was the point, and that was all Sam needed.

Despite his newfound tiredness, Sam couldn't help but think how much better the world seemed. The campus seemed friendly, more open. His classmates seemed more inviting, less mysterious. He learned to laugh at the jokes of the guys on the floor, and even joined in their antics, pulling pranks on the girls' floor right above them.

It was college life, Sam realized: typical, American college life. There was no fear of evil, no persistent training, just having a good time, doing his best. It was being a part of something, it was being appreciated and appreciating others.

In short, it was everything Sam had ever dreamed about.

Still, he missed his family. He wished Dean was here, to be on the team, too. He didn't doubt that, together, they'd be unstoppable. And no matter how good it felt to be one of the guys, none of it was quite the same as being Dean's brother. As good as the compliments felt, he couldn't help but wish he could hear them coming out of his dad's mouth.

The other good thing about Sam's newfound social life, was that it kept him busy enough so that he didn't have enough time to dwell. There was always someone to talk to, something to do, and that was enough to keep him from missing home too much--most of the time. But he couldn't have both--his dad had made that abundantly clear, and Dean certainly wasn't ready to take Sam's side.

He'd just have to prosper in the only chance at happiness he had left.

-o-

"Hey, Winchester!"

Sam twitched, grumbling a little. He was too tired for this.

"Sam!" the voice called again, shaking him this time.

Startling awake, Sam looked up, blinking blearily up at his roommate.

Eric grinned. "You know, if you drool in the books, they don't usually buy them back from you," he said.

Sam scowled a little, dabbing absently at his chin. "You need something?"

"It's four o'clock, man," Eric said.

Sam looked at him, trying to remember why that was important.

"Our first game," Eric said, rolling his eyes.

Blinking once, Sam's memory came back to him and he shook his head clear of sleep. "I knew that," he said. "We need to be down there in, what--?"

"Thirty minutes," Eric reminded him.

Sam nodded absently, shuffling his books together. "I was just trying to study for my biology exam."

"Yeah, I can see that."

Shooting him a glare, Sam rummaged for his shoes. "We're whites today, right?"

Eric glanced down at his own white t-shirt. "Last time I checked."

Fumbling through his clothes, Sam extracted his shoes and pulled a white t-shirt from the pile. It occurred to him then that his room was a mess. Usually, he preferred things neat and orderly, but there wasn't time for that these days. And for the first time in his life, no one was looking over his shoulder to tell him otherwise. Not to mention the fact that he'd been in this dorm at Stanford about as long as he'd lived anywhere.

He was settling down, growing roots. He was being normal.

That thought alone was enough to make him smile even as Eric egged him on to get his butt in gear for the game.

-o-

The first game was a success.

All of Sam's training had paid off in one respect: he was there to win, at almost any cost. His concentration was paramount. He didn't know all the moves and the guys still had to explain some of the plays to him, but Sam hoped his work ethic made up for his lack of knowledge.

By the end of the game, he was sweaty and winded, and the other team was giving him meaningful glares as his teammates high fived him in victory.

Their jubilance surprised Sam. Victory was to be enjoyed, that much Sam knew, but the exuberance, the outward display of it was something Sam was unaccustomed to. His father had never been one for displays of emotion in any form. His gloating was steady and often silent; Dean was often smug and condescending.

The guys, though—the guys whooped and leaped on one another, emptying bottles of water on each other's heads.

When Eric slugged him in the arm, Sam realized that he'd been staring. "Come on, Winchester," he cajoled. "You're part of this, too. We won thanks to you."

"I didn't do much," Sam said with a sheepish shake of his head.

"Didn't do much?" Eric asked, incredulous. "What you wanted to score six touchdowns instead of five? We killed them, Sam. Don't you know how to celebrate?"

Celebrating was nothing more than understated smiles and the clank of beer glasses. It was quietly smug jokes and a ruffle of hair.

"No," he said softly. "I'm not sure I do."

"Well, then," Eric said with a knowing glint in his eye. "Let us show you how it's done."

-o-

The next morning, Sam had a pounding headache, and he couldn't remember how he got back to his room. He woke up with the taste of vomit in his mouth and it hurt to move.

"Who would have guessed you're such a lightweight?" Eric asked, putting a cup of coffee on the floor next to his bed.

Sam just groaned.

"Welcome to the real world, Winchester," Eric crooned.

Sam would have thrown a pillow at him, but his head hurt too much.

-o-

"You never talk about your family," Eric said one night.

Sam tensed, but didn't look up from his book. "Not much to tell."

"Why not?" he asked. "You don't even say where you're from."

"We moved around a lot," Sam said simply, his voice tight.

"You going home for Thanksgiving?"

Sam just shook his head, keeping his eyes trained downward.

"Why not?"

Taking a shaky breath, Sam forced out the words. "My dad and I--we had a falling out. I'm not exactly welcome back home."

"You? You're kidding?" Eric's voice sounded truly surprised.

Sam shrugged.

"You're like the All-American boy. How any family could not be proud of a kid like you..."

"It's complicated," Sam said shortly with a rough edge of finality that came out harsher than he intended.

Eric got the hint. "Sorry, man," he said softly.

Silence lapsed and Sam's eyes burned until he finally heard Eric roll over in his bed.

-o-

It got easier. The socializing, the balancing act, the celebrating. Sam never let himself get as out of control as the guys did--not after that first time--but the further along the season went, the more he felt like he really was part of the team, not just pretending. He stopped worrying that someday they'd point at him and laugh and tell him the jig was up.

Sam didn't feel whole, exactly—he was pretty sure he never would—but he felt good. He felt free. This was his life. This was what he had chosen and he was going to make it work. More than that, he could flourish.

He could also help his team win the championship. Sam wasn't sure why it mattered--it was nothing more than competitive intramurals--but to the guys, it did. It got them going, made them excited. It was an odd sensation--to care about something so passionately and to know it was so trivial. But Sam didn't hunt anymore. There were no more ghosts for him, no more monsters; just the every day ups and downs of normal life.

Which meant winning this game.

It was the biggest game of the season. They were undefeated so far, tied for first with the sixth floor of the dorm across the quad. Talk had buzzed for weeks about this match up, but it wasn't until Sam got to the game that day that he realized why.

For what Sam's team had in skill, these guys had in size.

So far, Sam had been one of the biggest guys around. True, his 6'4'' frame wasn't overly bulky, but his muscles were well-defined under all his layers. And he had trusted his agility and speed above anything his other opponents had had.

But this time was different. This was intramural football, but the other team looked the part of pros, easily matching Sam in height and outweighing him.

"You think these guys are for real?" Sam asked Eric before the game.

"Why do you think we wanted you to join our team?" Eric said back to him with a wry smile.

"They do know this is touch football, don't they?" Sam asked.

Eric nodded quickly. "Sure," he said. "I'm sure."

Sam's eyes darkened and his stomach flipped. It was an anticipation he recognized, a nervous, uncertain one. The kind he got before hunts and fights with his father.

Apparently, adrenaline was adrenaline, no matter what context it came in. Sam knew how to use that.

-o-

Sam had no idea two-hand touch could be so physical. These guys took touch to a whole new level. By the fourth quarter, Sam was sore and bruised, having been knocked to the ground more times than he could count. They weren't tackles--not exactly--but the hits weren't gentle by any means, and certainly not fun.

The score was tight, an even 14 on each side. Both teams were out to win, but looking over his teammates, Sam could see they were wearing down. They hadn't had a good drive since the first half, and Sam got the sense they were barely hanging on. They needed points--and fast--if they were going to stand a chance of holding out until the end.

It was nearly a fluke that they got good field position at all. A series of lucky plays and well-earned passes had got them within scoring distance. In the huddle, Eric was tense. They all knew the meaning of this play. It was third and inches and they were going to score. They had to if they were going to stay in it.

"I want you to run a slant," Eric said softly in hurried tones. "Get open, Winchester, it's coming to you. They'll expect that, but it's our best bet."

The team nodded in agreement before moving into position.

On the line, Sam eyed his path. The defense had shifted to cover him, that much was obvious. But if he cut hard across the middle, he might be able to outrun them to the end zone before they had a chance to block him.

Eric cried out hike and the play went into motion.

Sam's world quieted as he zeroed in on his target--the patch of green beyond the cones. He banked hard, pulling away from the defenders, zigging until he was clear. Then he looked up, eyes searching for Eric. He found his roommate as the ball was released, aimed straight at him.

The defenders were converging, and the pass was purposefully high. Sam didn't hesitate. Leaping into the air, his fingers felt leather, and he pulled the ball down close to him.

He saw the other player going up with him—a kid his height, a bit beefier—undoubtedly going for the interception. The guy wouldn't get the ball, but there was no way Sam would avoid contact.

It didn't matter. Sam could take the hit. All he had to do was hold onto the ball.

He was so intent on that mission, that he didn't see the guy coming at his legs until it was too late. They collided mid-air first, chest against chest, and as he tumbled backwards, Sam's feet were jarred, heightening the dizzying speed with which he was headed to the ground. His dad had lectured him on how to fall—on how to position himself, to protect his head at all costs.

There was no time for that, even if Sam had remembered it sooner. His father would be disappointed in him. Which was why Sam had to do one thing right. It didn't matter if it was nothing more than football, Sam was tired of failing, and this time, he was going to follow through.

This was going to hurt, Sam was sure of it, but his last thought was of the ball tucked securely in his arm.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I forgot to mention my beta was geminigrl11, who makes all things wonderful. Any mistakes are my own stupidity. This chapter goes off into Dean and some John, but I'll get back to Sam and bringing the boys together in the last part, which I HOPE will be up Saturday. All other notes and disclaimers in part one.

-o-

PART TWO

The girl at the bar was watching him, her eyes hooded by the heavy mascara and purple-swiped eyelids. She nibbled her bottom lip—her glistening, pink, pouty bottom lip that looked ripe enough to eat.

Dean let his eyes linger on her, moving down her deeply plunged halter top, before he threw back his drink. Slamming the glass on the table, he nodded at the bartender for another, and looked back at his fan.

She wasn't a natural blonde, Dean could see that much, but she had good taste. Nursing her Jack and Coke and checking him out--that was all Dean needed to know. Well, that, and if she had a place of her own. His dad was lenient these days, but Dean couldn't imagine his father looking the other way when Dean brought home a buxom blonde (a true blonde or not). His father was too intent on other things, scarily so, and while he granted Dean the freedom to explore his manhood, it didn't mean that he wanted Dean to bring it home with him. It was such a meager rule that Dean couldn't deny his old man that much.

Besides, his dad had been through enough rebellion lately. He didn't need it from Dean.

In truth, they had a tentative peace these days. Neither of them talked about what had happened. In fact, neither of them talked about Sam at all. It was as if suddenly Dean had no kid brother.

That hurt just as much as Sam leaving had. To know his brother had chosen college over him--well, nothing made that a less bitter pill to swallow. It wasn't that he didn't get the desire for more. It wasn't even that he didn't see that Sam needed it. It was just that when push came to shove, he'd never thought Sam would really leave. He'd practically raised Sam, and he hadn't seen that one coming.

So, Dean was angry at Sam. But he was also angry at his father for putting the ultimatum on the table. Sam was as hardheaded as their dad was, so even if the kid didn't want to sever ties, he would do it just because he'd been dared to.

That was the way it was for the Winchester family. His dad and Sam, butting heads. Dean left with no choices in the aftermath.

He couldn't stay mad at his father if he tried, though. Because Dean saw how he drank more now, how the wrinkles in his face showed in the downturn of his mouth instead of the crinkles of his eyes. Dean knew this hurt his dad, and Dean didn't have it in himself to add to that.

Especially when his dad seemed so tentative with him. Encouraging him to stay out late, to take up more parts of the hunt by himself. When John let go of Sam, he let go of Dean a little bit, too. They were more partners now, equals; even though Dean still had to say yes, sir when it mattered, he was free to do what he pleased most of the time.

Right now, it pleased him to meet that blonde.

He barely waited for the bartender to fill his drink before taking it in his hand and sauntering across the bar. Maybe he couldn't forget Sam, maybe he couldn't forget what his father had done, but tonight he'd make a good effort on that front.

-o-

He didn't stay the night; he hardly ever did. There wasn't much point to it. He could never remember their names and, truth be told, he didn't really want to. They were convenient hookups, sheer fun for both parties involved, and that was all that mattered.

Instead, he would kiss the girl, leave her a sweet note, and head off before the sun was up. He didn't need to sneak into the motel, yet still he was always quiet. Not that it mattered. His father rarely slept and barely gave Dean a second glance when he walked in the door.

It was nearly four when Dean got home. The blonde had had more energy than he'd anticipated. He found his father on the couch, relaxed on it with his eyes half-slitted as the TV flickered in front of him on mute. His papers were scattered around him with a logic that Dean didn't quite grasp, and his shirt looked the same as the one he'd been wearing yesterday.

As Dean shut the door behind him, his father's voice startled him. "Did you have a good night?"

Dean cocked his head and forced a smile. "Yeah," he said. "Only good times to be had in Oklahoma."

"We're heading out tomorrow," his dad told him in the same gravelly voice, worn with age and stress. "A hunt just outside Salt Lake."

It was expected. They'd banished the poltergeist a few days ago, and they never stuck around long. When Sam had been with them, they'd looked for hunts in the area, tried to stay put for a month or two, but they didn't need to worry about that anymore.

"I want you to take point on this one," his dad said suddenly.

Dean looked at him, surprised, and found his father's eyes open and alert.

"It's time for you to take more responsibility. I found the news clipping, but the rest is up to you."

Dean didn't know what to say. He simply stared, his mouth hanging open.

"Get some sleep," his dad advised. "You'll need it in the morning."

Dean nodded his obedience, moving out of the room in a haze. He'd been trusted with a lot, but a whole hunt? Him in charge? That was a new one, the last uncharted territory for Dean to take. There was no denying Dean had wanted it; as a teenager he'd fantasized about it. Him giving the orders, knowing the ins and outs, his dad looking to him and saying, "So, what next?"

He fell into bed with his shoes on and stared at the ceiling. This was his chance, this was it--everything he'd ever wanted.

For the first time in years, he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

-o-

Dean awoke mid-morning. He'd only managed to squeeze in about five hours of sleep, but that was more than enough. The nervous pit of excitement could keep him going more than sleep or caffeine ever could.

In the small dining area, Dean found the news clipping waiting for him, circled in red on the table. The coffee pot was on, and Dean read the clipping as he fished around for some cereal that wasn't stale.

The article was small and brief, the mysterious death of a woman. Authorities were calling it a suicide, but slitting one's own throat was more than a little far-fetched. There was a suicide note and enough circumstantial evidence to make the self-inflicted declaration fit, but Dean could see why his father had lingered on this one.

There'd be plenty of interviewing to do to see if the woman had been suicidal, and then plenty of sweet talking the police department for the details of the case. And of course the research--for other victims who fit the MO.

When his father finally clomped through the door, Dean looked up at him with anticipation. His father met his eyes with a detached bemusement. "You got your case figured out yet?"

"Sounds like a haunting," Dean began quickly. "But the suicide note--that's tricky. Either it's forged or the ghost had enough mojo to alter perception, make the woman feel suicidal enough to do it. The only way you could go through with something like that would be under supernatural influence--maybe spiritual possession? A ghost inhabiting someone to re-enact their own death over and over again?"

His father was watching him, nodding at his speculation. He gathered a breath and fell heavily into the chair across from Dean. "So what do you want to do?"

Dean fidgeted nervously, anxiously. "Well, we'll head out. It'll be a two-day drive, but once we get there we'll want to scope out the place of death, see if there's any activity on the EMF. We'll have to interview the family, obviously, see if anything weird was going on with her beforehand. Then we'll want to check the obituaries--see who else has died like this. It says here that she's the fifth suicide locally in the last few months, so we'll want to check them out, and, you know, see how and if they're connected. I would guess they are, because suicides happen, but that many in that size of town? Either they've got a major crisis that we don't know about or it's something supernatural." He stopped, realizing he was talking a lot, maybe too much, and his voice tapered off awkwardly.

His dad stared at him, and Dean blinked, surprised, maybe embarrassed. "What?" he asked, worried suddenly he'd missed something obvious, that he'd already screwed something up.

John shook his head. "Nothing. It's just--you really take to this stuff," he said, and the look on his face was something like Dean hadn't seen before, not for a long time at least. It disappeared, though, and John's face darkened. "At least one of my sons was paying attention all those years."

Something turned in Dean's stomach. The words he'd always wanted to hear, the pride he'd longed for, the unity he'd craved--he was so close, but not quite. Not without Sam. Not with Sam still so heavy in his father's mind. It was always about Sam in some way, and Dean wasn't sure he'd ever escape that.

His father's hand clapped him hard on the arm. "No need to relive that now, though," he said, and his eyes were shining again. "I'll get started packing."

Dean smiled at him as he left the room. He looked back down at the newspaper clipping and tried to focus his efforts. If Sam could let go, then maybe he could, too. Maybe he could, too.

-o-

Dean drove the whole way there, and he made it in a day and a half. He'd planned the route himself, and he'd found all the short cuts. He couldn't get there fast enough; he needed this. They needed this.

He checked them into a motel, feeling a swell of pride when he put down the credit card. It didn't matter that the name wasn't his; it was the act that mattered, the appearance of it that he liked. Before they even left the room, Dean had looked up the routes to the hospital, the library, and the victim's home.

John was flipping through a book, laid out on the bed and his feet crossed. "You know what you want to do?"

Dean cleared his throat and nodded quickly. "Yeah," he said. "Like I said, first we'll go over to the victim's house. If it is a haunting, we'll see clear signs of EMF. If not, well, then we'll have to look a little more deeply. What do you think about for cover?"

John just raised his eyebrows. "Your hunt, son," he reminded him. "Not mine."

The heady feeling settled over him, and his lips twitched in a smile. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I'm thinking we can go with insurance company. Those places do have too much paper work, so no one would ever know the difference."

"Sounds good."

Gathering his notes in his hand, Dean bit his lip, looking around the room anxiously before turning back to his father. "You ready?" Dean asked.

"When you are," he replied easily, sliding off the bed.

That trust, the ease--that was what had been missing, all those years when Sam was rebelling--that was what they hadn't had. It reminded Dean of another time, of a simpler time, of a time before hunting and ghosts and demons.

-o-

He understood more about his father in two days than he had during his entire life.

He understood his father's paranoid caution. He got why he obsessively checked and rechecked things. The man was, after all, responsible for the well being of others. That was nothing to take lightly. Dean had appreciated that before, tried to explain it to Sam, but he'd never understood it until he was the one calling the shots. Because with every choice he made, Dean realized the possibility of disaster.

He also understood the appeal of the hunt. His father had started this as a quest for vengeance, that much had always gone unspoken. But Dean hadn't gotten how therapeutic it'd been. How it'd been a coping mechanism, an escape.

The interviews, the research, the clues--all of them were so consuming, so demanding, that Dean barely had time to think about what he'd lost, about who wasn't there. He barely had time to think about Sam. There was hardly any time to feel the aching loss inside his chest; it was still there, but it was lesser now, in a way that alcohol and sex had never hidden.

The first day of research had been busy: lots of crying relatives, lots of time in the library. They'd worked so long and hard that they'd skipped lunch by accident and didn't eat dinner until the night had fallen. They'd eaten at an all night diner, both poring over their notes, discussing theories, making speculations.

When they had finally retired to the motel room, Dean was exhausted like he'd never felt before, weary in every inch of his body, but strangely satisfied.

He was drifting off to sleep when he realized he hadn't missed Sam once that day.

-o-

Most spirits were angry, that much was true. But most spirits weren't _this _angry, nor were most spirits this perceptive; those were two things Dean figure out pretty quickly. He'd suspected it all along--the nature of the deaths didn't suggest an outward act inflicted from spirit to person, but an inward one inflicted upon the victim by the victim. Possession. Most ghosts didn't go that way, and they were freaky as all get out when they did.

After all, how do you fight a ghost who could possess anyone? Rock salt and iron were repellents, but unwieldy, and once the thing was inside someone, it made iron unfeasible and salt a bit more awkward.

Dean had opted for a standard salt and burn, but it would have to be fast and careful. Ghosts may not have all their higher reasoning skills, but they knew a threat when they saw one, and most didn't like their remains being played with, much less torched.

Things were going fine--the night was warm, the dirt was moist, and they were digging to break their personal best--when she showed up.

They were nearly done by that point; Dean's shovel had shattered the decaying coffin lid, when the temperature dropped and a wind picked up.

Dean turned, and barely caught sight of her before she was gone in a blink, electricity humming in her absence. Dean cocked his head, ready to ask the question when he saw his father stiffen.

That was all it took, and Dean's instincts flared wildly. His hand was in his pocket, reaching for the rock salt a split second before he saw the shovel swinging at his head.

The metal hit the dirt above his head, and Dean found himself nearly sitting on top of the bones. At least he had access, but starting the fire now would only torch himself as well as his father, which really wasn't an option.

His father was advancing again, his face contorted with rage, and Dean lashed out with a foot, catching his father in the gut. The older man gasped, keeling over, and Dean knew he couldn't hesitate. On his feet, he hoisted himself out of the grave--he had to get both of them clear. Fighting his dad wasn't pleasant, but he'd do it as a distraction while the bones burned away. Fighting him on top of the bones was a futile gesture.

Scrambling, he found the salt--which would be useful for the bones and for his now possessed father. The gasoline was nearby and the matches were in his pocket. He just needed his dad up and out and clear--

He was so intent on his thoughts that he fell hard when something grabbed his leg. Wrenching himself away painfully, Dean could see his father's head bobbing out from the grave. "You can't take me," his father's mouth growled, but the voice, the words--they were all wrong,

Dean grimaced, reinvigorated by the foreign nature of his father's words. "Come and stop me," he taunted, pulling himself clear of his father's reach.

Fury on his face, his father's body pulled itself out of the grave faster than Dean anticipated. Biding his time, Dean waited for his father to charge him, ducking low at the last minute, and sending him flying high. He heard the thump and wasted no time--moving even faster now, he ripped open the rock salt, pouring it haphazardly over the grave. He had unscrewed the gasoline and was holding over the grave when he was hit again.

"Mine," his father snarled.

Dean jerked with the impact, losing his grip on the container and it fell into the open grave. Stumbling, Dean's fingers reached for the rock salt. Finding the harsh pellets, he fished out a handful, and, turning, threw it in his father's advancing face.

The reaction was instantaneous and violent. The spirit within his father hissed and screeched, and John clawed viciously at his face. The pain looked excruciating, and the sound of his father in agony was not easy to ignore, but Dean had bigger issues, bigger concerns. He had to finish the hunt. The hunt above all else.

His fingers found the matches in his pocket without thought. Still on his back, he tore off one, struck it on the pack and watched it spring to life.

With cold eyes, he looked back at his father. "Say goodnight," he said contemptuously.

His father looked up at him, angry and desperate and ready to lunge. Dean flicked the match into the grave and didn't even look as the flames sprung up, bright and violent and hot.

He sat back, panting, as his father's form writhed and screamed before slumping to the ground.

The fire crackled and Dean sighed in victory.

It was over. He'd done it.

His father stirred, pushing his head up and squinting toward Dean. "Is it done?" he asked, his voice sounding parched and stretched.

Dean just nodded. "Yeah," he said. "She's gone."

Grunting, his father found his way to a sitting position, grimacing as he did and muttering a curse. "I need a drink."

Dean could only agree.

-o-

His dad was hilarious.

Dean had always known that his father was smart--scary smart, with the ability to pick up patterns like a schizophrenic off his meds. That was surely where Sam had inherited his brains from, Dean didn't doubt it. Part of him had always figured the humor Dean had must have been his mother's.

He was wrong.

The hunt was over, and it had been an unparalleled success. There hadn't been a single hiccup, well, nothing besides his father's possession, but even that wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility in this line of work. Besides that, Dean had handled it the best possible way. He hadn't made one mistake, and Dean felt good about that, better than he had about anything in his entire life. It was right up there with the first hunt he went on, the first kill he made. The first one he'd led.

His dad had never gone for celebrations before. Just quiet victories, maybe a forbidden beer before he was technically legal to drink, or the turning of his head when Dean staked out a one night stand. But nothing much more than that. An approving nod, a meaningful pat on the shoulder.

This was different.

It had been John's idea to go to the bar--a seedy little place just a few miles down from the motel. Dean knew his father was no stranger to bars--hustling required that sort of thing, and the two of them had passed their share of time in them together pulling scams. But they didn't go to socialize, to bond, to be with one another.

But John had hunkered them down at a table in the corner, calling for a pair of beers. The conversation started off as reflection, comments on the hunt, but as the beers kept coming, the layers kept coming off, and soon his dad was telling stories about his own college years, days so long ago that they seemed to be from another world.

Then the laughter had started, at first a bemused chuckle, then a hearty laugh, then all-out spine-bending laughter. The old man was a storyteller among other things, and his past held more than tragedy and tracking.

"I swear to God I thought your mother would never look at me again," John explained between gasps.

Dean's laughter came out in snorted bursts. "You--you actually _said_ that?"

John nodded, his face red with laughter. "Right there at the Thanksgiving dinner table. Her uncle about choked on a turkey leg."

"You told them that mom was good in _bed_?" It was almost inconceivable, the entire thought. His father and his mother, together, loving, a _family_. Being normal, being everything Dean wasn't and hadn't been since he was four years old.

"I was trying to defend her," John said with a bemused shake of his head. "She'd burned the gravy, and her mother was harping on her that she'd better watch out or she'd never satisfy her husband and I just told them that I was more than satisfied in all the ways that mattered."

The disbelief rose like laughter in Dean's throat. It wasn't the situation; it was the life that his father remembered, the life that Dean could barely remember. It was a happier time, a happier place, and for the first time in 18 years, he felt like he was finally living it again.

They staggered home just after two, both too drunk to even think about driving. The walk down the highway was cool but invigorating, and Dean couldn't help but wonder how it'd taken him so long to get to this point.

-o-

Dean wasn't sure how long he slept; he didn't even remember getting back home. But when he finally did return to the land of living, he found himself in bed, shoes on the floor, and covered with a blanket. The motel room was empty, and Dean's headache was massive.

It took a moment for him to recognize what woke him. He was groggy enough that he was pretty sure he could have slept for about ten more hours without waking. But something was ringing--

His cell.

Not only was it ringing, but it was vibrating like crazy inside his pocket. Apparently, his father had known enough to remove his shoes, but hadn't gone so far as to search Dean's pockets before he'd laid him to rest for the night--or day, or whatever.

He had to answer it. For one thing, there was a quite explicit dictum in the family--always answer the phone. It could be an emergency, it could be important, answer it. It had only taken his father barging in on him once in the backseat of the Impala for him to figure out that answering now saved trouble later.

For another thing, the vibrations were making him nauseous.

It wasn't an easy process--Dean's reflexes were still beyond crappy--but after a few tries, he managed to pull the offending object from his jeans pocket. Without even looking at the display, he flipped it open, rolling onto his back in relief before saying, "Hello?"

There was a brief pause on the other end and then an intake of air. "Yes, is this...Dean Winchester?"

The voice was unfamiliar. He closed his eyes; it was too early for this. "Yeah?"

"My name is Patricia Westcott, and I'm a nurse at Mercy Hospital in Palo Alto, California. I'm calling in regards to Sam Winchester. He's your brother, right?"

Just like that, Dean's sleepiness fell away, and the sense of peace and purpose that had filled him the last few days vanished. He swallowed hard, sitting upright. "Yeah, what about him?"

"I'm calling to inform you that he's been admitted here," she explained. "You were listed as being his next of kin."

Dean's stomach roiled, and he was pretty sure it wasn't the hangover. "Is he—is he okay? I mean, what happened?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't release any more information over the phone."

Cursing, Dean slammed his hand on the mattress. "What do you mean you can't tell me anything? You're telling me my brother's in the hospital, but not why?"

"Sir, if it would be possible for you to come to the hospital--"

"Is my brother okay or not?"

"Just, please, we'd like to have a contact here as soon as we can. I'm simply following procedure."

Dean had a few choice words for her and her procedures, but he was pretty sure they wouldn't get him anywhere. "Fine," he ground out. "I'll be there in a few hours."

He cut off her thank-you, and was out of bed, gathering his stuff. His fingers were numb; his heart was in his throat. The ache, the feeling of loss, it was there again, strong as ever, and he realized that maybe he hadn't escaped it at all, he'd just forgotten how much it meant to him.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: It's done! I had to write like crazy the last two days to get this thing finished. Much thanks to sendintheclowns for looking it over, to Gem for her usual beta, and to Rachelly for saving me at the last minute and looking over the last bits of stuff when no one else could! You all helped this piece a lot :) Lastly, I hope everyone has a very Merry Christmas, especially OSS--I hope this fic satiates your need for limpness as much as it did mine :) Oh, and any similarities to a certain ER episode are entirely intentional. All other notes in part one.

* * *

PART THREE

There was pain.

It wasn't a conscious thought, but it was the closest thing to it that he could manage.

All he wanted was to go back to sleep, to slip away into the oblivion from which he had come.

"Sam," someone was calling. "Sam, wake up."

He didn't recognize the voice, didn't recognize anything. The voice was quiet somehow, or maybe just far away, buried in the buzzing that surrounded him.

"Sam, can you hear me?"

Hearing wasn't really the problem. Answering was beyond him.

"Sam, we've called your brother."

That got his attention. He tensed, in anticipation, in relief. It was his brother, he needed his brother, his brother was there for him.

But his brother was with his dad. His dad had kicked him out.

Panic rose. So did the contents of his stomach.

"Whoa, he's vomiting."

There was movement now, not by his choice. The bitter taste of bile choked him and tears sprung to his eyes. Hands supported him, keeping his head to the side, cushioning his body in what Sam vaguely recognized as recovery position.

It hurt and burned and it eclipsed Sam's awareness.

When he was able to breathe again, he was on his back and the buzzing was louder now, inescapable.

"Just relax, Sam," the voice said again. "Dean will be here soon."

Sam wanted to protest, he wanted to tell them to keep Dean away, but he wanted to sleep so much more.

-o-

Dean was barely coherent during the drive. Speed limits weren't real to him, didn't apply to him, and he dared any cop, _anyone _to stop him. He had one focus and one focus only: getting to Sam.

Growing up with hunting had made some things clear to Dean. First, life was dangerous. Things could happen. Security and safety was nothing more than an illusion, a delusion, a fantasy. Only vigilance and preparedness could protect you, and even then, it might not be enough. Dean had seen his father hurt; he'd been hurt himself. He'd heard stories of hunters who had died, and he knew his own family history better than he was ever allowed to talk about.

The second was that family was everything. Family was all there was, all there would ever be. It was the only thing worth fighting for in the end, the only thing truly worthy of pursuit and protection. It came before everything, even his own wants and needs.

So, no matter how mad he was at Sam, he couldn't just sit around idly while the kid was hurt, maybe _dying_ in some hospital. It wasn't the Winchester way.

At least, it wasn't Dean's way.

Dean was about an hour out of town before he realized he hadn't told his father anything. That wasn't like him, to forget about his father. He had freedom to do what he wanted, sure, but there were some things necessitated by safety and worry. Dean should have left a note.

He probably should have told him about Sam.

But Dean wasn't sure he wanted to tell him about Sam. At least not until he knew how badly Sam was hurt. He'd let his dad know where he was, but his father had been the one to deliver the ultimatum. Sam had been pushing for years, but it was John who drew the line in the sand. Sam just crossed it. Dean had lived with his father long enough to know that John didn't forgive easily. He'd seen too many friendships and working acquaintances cut out of their lives over far less than going to college.

This was still too fresh. His father wasn't ready--and Dean couldn't take the risk that John wouldn't let him go. John could hold his grudges. Dean's meant nothing in the face of losing his brother.

Foot to the accelerator, Dean drove on.

-o-

"Sam? Sam, can you hear me?"

Sam wanted to groan, to roll away.

"I think he's awake," someone said in passing. "Or he's trying to, anyway."

Furrowing his brow, Sam frowned at that, feeling perverse for reasons he couldn't quite grasp. His head just _hurt_, everything _hurt_, and he wanted to go back to sleep. Just for a little bit.

"Sam, can you open your eyes?"

Someone slipped a hand in his.

"Can you squeeze my hand?"

Shifting, Sam tried to pull away, his eyelids flickering as he did so.

"Good, Sam," someone coached. "Just a little more."

At least they were polite about it, Sam supposed, remembering the military tone of his father's "requests." The curt orders were always expected to be followed by prompt obedience. He must be getting soft.

Opening his eyes was a struggle, one he regretted the moment he did it. Light flared up, pouring in and blinding him. Something like a whimper escaped his mouth, and he tried to roll away. He was immobilized, though, trapped, stuck.

"Easy," the voice soothed. "You're still strapped to a backboard. We need to rule out spinal injuries. Your friends tell us you took quite a fall."

His memory jogged. A fall. Friends. Football. The football game.

His mind more clearly situated, opening his eyes seemed a bit more relevant. He tried again, this time squinting, prepared for the onslaught of light.

The world was gauzy, blurred and faded around the edges. Nausea crept up the back of his throat, and he tried to swallow it back. The effort was wearing, and tears sprung uncontrollably to his eyes as he tried to move and failed.

There was a hand on his arm now, gentle but restraining. "You won't be able to move. We still need to take you down to radiology. Do you understand me?"

Sam's eyes struggled to focus, taking in the sight of the woman by his side. Older than he was, but not old, her hair was some shade of blonde. She was smiling.

"Sam? Can you say something?"

She was asking so nicely that Sam couldn't help but want to oblige, despite the pounding in his head. He opened his mouth, but found it dry, his throat strained. He closed it again with a painful swallow.

"You're at a hospital, Sam," she explained, her voice patient and smooth. "You were hurt. Do you remember getting hurt?"

The pass and the collision seeped into awareness. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

She must have seen it, because her smile widened. "Okay, good," she said. "We're going to run some tests to see how you're doing. You took a hard hit to the head and have been in an out of consciousness for a while now."

That surprised Sam. It hadn't seemed that long—that meant he had missed the game. Had they won? Had he even caught the ball? Where was Eric?

Sam's eyes were drifting shut, opening and closing sluggishly. The darkness was warmer, easier.

"We've called your brother," she said next. "He'll be here in a few hours."

Startling, Sam opened his eyes, probing hers with a desperate question. "My brother?" he tried to say.

She nodded. "Yes, he was listed as your emergency contact. The severity of your head injury warranted such a call."

He tried to shake his head desperately, pain flaring through every synapse. Dean couldn't come, Dean shouldn't come. Dad had told him he had no family, that he had no one left. He'd had to believe it. He couldn't face Dean—not like this. Dean couldn't see his weakness. No one could. All Dean would say was _I told you so_. Sam couldn't see either of them until he was better, until he was a success, until even they couldn't be disappointed in him anymore.

She was watching him now, her smile gone, concern evident on her face. "Sam, are you okay?"

Tears burned his eyes now, more than he could handle. The pain in his head spiked and his stomach turned violently. He couldn't stay awake, he couldn't do anything—it was just too much, too fast, and he didn't know how to keep up.

He needed to explain it to her, to tell her to keep Dean away, but his consciousness was waning rapidly now, and as the light disappeared entirely from Sam's vision, all he could think was how he'd failed again.

-o-

The hospital was easy to find. Dean had been in enough that they all looked vaguely similar, all vaguely ominous, just by the very nature of what being in one usually meant.

He parked the Impala in the first spot he saw, oblivious to the spot's designation, and hurried toward the Emergency Room entrance.

The admit desk was easy enough to spot. It had a wide counter and seemed to be the hub of activity, nurses and doctors bustling in and out, charts in hands. There was procedure to follow, Dean knew that much, and even the Winchester in him couldn't avoid that inconvenience.

At the desk, he didn't wait to be asked. "I need to talk to someone about Sam Winchester," he said, projecting his voice for everyone behind the desk to hear. "Someone called me."

The woman that finally looked up at him was gray-haired and had a weary face. Her hair was pulled back hastily in an ill-becoming ponytail, and she peered at him over the top of her glasses. "And you are?"

"His brother," Dean replied, keeping his anxiety in check.

She rifled through some files with an air of indifference before finally lingering at one. "Yes, we have a Sam Winchester. He's still being examined."

Dean waited for more expectantly. Patience had its time and place; when it came to information regarding his little brother's well being, though, patience was _not_ a virtue. "What's wrong with him? Where's his doctor?"

"Look, I'm sorry," she said shortly. "You'll have to take a seat in the waiting room. We'll send someone to find you as soon as we know anything."

Dean's jaw clenched, and he struggled to control himself. It went against his instincts, but he didn't have much else he could do. Not playing by the rules in a place like this could result in his removal, which would keep him from Sam even longer. No, unfortunately his best bet, his only real bet, was to wait.

He paused in the waiting room entrance, taking in the partially filled seats. A handful of people were sprawled about, some looking tense, some looking half asleep. Dean sought out a vacant corner and slunk over. Slouching low in a blue plastic chair, he made himself invisible to the people around him.

Most of the room's inhabitants were like him, quiet, withdrawn, sullen, probably mulling over whoever it was they were waiting for. Dean's mind wandered, thinking about the last time he'd seen Sam. The kid had been grim-faced and angry and scared as hell. His hands had trembled as he held his bag; his small number of possessions painfully light.

Sam had looked at him that night, hopeful and desperate, and Dean hadn't known what to do. He could hear the harsh words, his father's and Sam's, and all he knew was that if Sam walked out that door, he'd never be back.

If Sam walked out that door, it'd ruin them all.

Sam had. And Dean had spent the last few months trying to recover.

Until one phone call brought it all back again.

He sighed, pushing the thoughts away and letting his attention shift to the other people in the room. There were a few boys in the middle section, fidgeting and leafing through magazines, talking amongst themselves.

"You'd think they'd have told us something by now," one of them muttered, sounding more than a little cross.

"We're not even family, dude," another replied. "I'm not sure they'll even tell us anything."

"But you said he hasn't even got family. We have to count for something, don't we?" the first asked.

"Nah, man, he's got family," the second one said. "He's just not on speaking terms with them. But they said they called his brother or something."

At this, Dean perked up, his ears honing in and his eyes darting stealthily to the boys. The one who was speaking was clearly the leader of the bunch. His voice was clear and his looks were solid.

A third scowled in his seat. He was wearing a hat pulled low over his eyes. All three were covered in grass-stained sweats. "I don't see why we have to wait around, then," the third said.

The second one smacked him on the arm. "He's our _friend_, man," he admonished. "Winchester would do it for you."

Dean didn't have to listen anymore. "Sam Winchester?" he interjected, sitting up and leaning forward.

All three boys looked at him, surprised.

"Yeah," the second said. "What about him?"

"You came in with Sam Winchester?"

He nodded. "And you are...?"

"His brother," Dean said shortly, daring the boys to say anything negative with his eyes. "What happened to him? They wouldn't tell me anything on the phone."

At this, their hesitation and skepticism melted away into guilt.

"What?" Dean asked, prodding them to answer, trying not to feel the panic broiling in his stomach.

"We were playing football," the first one said. "Intramurals."

Dean's stomach flipped. "And?"

"Sam took a bad hit," the second said plaintively, his jaw set tight.

"What kind of bad hit?" Dean ground out, trying to keep the accusation out of his voice.

"It was awful, man," the third kid said, looking pale and drawn. "I could see it happening, but I couldn't stop it. I couldn't do anything."

Dean's patience snapped. "What _happened_," he demanded again, no longer a question but a threat, his voice low and his eyes piercing.

Two of them shrunk away, surprised at his anger. The third one leveled him with a stare. "The hit Sam took—he was in the end zone, jumping to catch the ball. A defender was in the air, too, trying for an interception. That wasn't a problem. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the guy below. That guy—he was _trying_ to take Sam out, trying to make him lose his footing. He rammed straight into Sam's knees. Sam didn't have a chance."

"What do you mean—he didn't have a chance? What the hell happened to my brother?"

"He went down," the kid told him simply. "The impact screwed him up—he fell on his shoulders and head." He paused and shuddered. "It didn't look right, man. And Sam just didn't get up. Wouldn't wake up at all. That's when we called the ambulance."

Dean waited, expecting more, expecting something more dramatic. Winchesters were injured in hunts, by spirits or monsters, but in football? When did Winchesters even have _time_ to play football?

Anger was roiling inside of him, mounting steadily toward a rage he could not place. Rage at the guys who had done this—punk kids who just wanted to win a game. Rage at Sam for being so stupid to get hurt like _this_. Rage at himself, for not being there to stop it before it happened.

It was so uncontrollable, so strong, that Dean was about to demand the names and addresses of the guys who'd done it, when someone was talking to him.

"Dean Winchester?"

The voice was gentle and vaguely familiar and Dean looked up into the face of a scrubs-clad young woman.

"You're Dean Winchester, right?" she asked.

Dean nodded, shooting to his feet. "Yeah, tell me about Sam. Is he--is he okay?"

"Right now he's being taken up for a few tests--some more scans to check for damage to his head and neck."

"But he's going to be okay, right?" Dean asked, pushing the issues. There was one answer he wanted, and she wasn't giving it to him yet.

"We're still assessing him," she said. "He has a bad concussion, and he hasn't been completely awake yet. Once the doctor has his test results back, he'll talk to about what's going on with Sam. But just know that for now he is stable."

It took a moment before Dean realized he was gaping.

A sympathetic look crossed her face and she put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said. "I wish I could tell you more. It shouldn't be too much longer before the doctor comes to see you."

She lingered, watching him carefully. But he couldn't move, couldn't reply. After a moment, she disappeared back into the hallway, and Dean felt his knees go weak.

He had come fearing the worst. He'd heard a thousand terrible reports in his head as his fears had run wild. He had thought he'd been prepared.

Her words weren't as terrifying as what he'd feared, but they left him feeling empty all the same.

-o-

Someone was doing something around his head.

No, someone was doing something _to_ his head, which might explain the pounding headache that seemed to follow him no matter where he went.

"Sam? Are you awake?"

That question _again_. Always with that question. He had better things to do--

"Your c-spine looks clear. We're going to remove the collar now," someone explained.

With a wince, Sam felt something around his neck loosen, something around his head disappear. He was rolled suddenly to his side, and all sensation was deadened to the rising nausea.

He was rolled promptly to his back, and he swallowed hard against it, squeezing his eyes shut to quell the increasing urge to vomit.

It took a minute, but when the urge passed, he opened his eyes again to find a plain-faced man looking down at him. "My name's Dr. Lundvall," he explained. "I've been treating you since they brought you in a few hours ago. How do you feel?"

"Okay," he lied. His head was still killing him and his vision was still faded around the edges.

"Any double vision?"

The doctor was hazily outlined in the light, but there was only one of him. "A little blurry," Sam admitted.

Dr. Lundvall nodded, pulling out a penlight. "Can you follow the light with your eyes?"

Sam flinched as the small light flickered to life in front of him, sending new waves of pain through his head. He tracked the movement, though, slow and steady, breathing in relief when the instrument was put away.

The older man picked up a chart then, making some notations. "You're doing much better than you were an hour ago. Your pupils are still a little sluggish, but your responses are becoming much more coherent. I understand this is probably your first conversation since the accident occurred."

Sam couldn't be sure, so he nodded.

The doctor scribbled down another note and put the chart down. "You have a concussion. The swelling in your neck seems to be going down already, but we want to keep you for a bit to monitor the head injury. We can't let you fall asleep for awhile yet, which is why we're laying off the good drugs for what I'm sure is a massive headache. But I think there are some people here to see you--I know your teammates are anxious to make sure you're okay, and I believe Patricia told me your brother has finally arrived."

At this, Sam's heart skipped a beat. "My brother?" he asked, his letters slurring all over each other. "Dean's here?"

Sam's distress went unnoticed. "I'm going to go talk to him then let him come in to see you. Having someone around will help keep you awake, anyway."

"But--" Sam began, his fears and protests lodged in his throat. "Dean's here?"

The man patted Sam's leg awkwardly. "Of course he is," he said with assurance. "Now just relax, and Patricia will check on you in a bit."

Before Sam could think of anything to say, he was alone again.

Feeling defeated, he let his eyes roll back to the ceiling. This shouldn't have happened. He shouldn't have let this happen. If his dad were he, the man would tell him _I told you so_ with relish. More evidence that Sam was a screw-up. He closed his eyes. He just wanted to be alone.

A sound came at the door, and Sam jerked his eyes open, regretting his hasty movements immediately. He'd had concussions before, and he knew what side effects they brought along with them; this one was one of the worst he'd had.

Grimacing, he fought back a wave of unsteadiness and nausea as his eyes focused. There, standing in the doorway, hunched uncertainly in the frame, was Dean.

His eyesight was still sketchy, so it was hard to read his brother's expression. He waited, nervously. It had been months since he'd seen Dean. Months since he'd been kicked out and told never to come back.

"Hey," Dean said finally, shuffling his feet. "I heard you were here."

Just like that, Sam's eyes focused, taking in his brother. Dean looked nervous, but he was trying to hide it, just like his brother always did to avoid showing weakness. Sam's heart started to ache--he had almost forgotten how much he missed him.

Seeing Dean here—it was surreal, painful and yet somehow reassuring. He hated thinking about living without his brother. But his brother had come for him, to help him. His brother still loved him, maybe even forgave him. Maybe Dean even understood. Maybe Sam had been wrong—maybe his family could learn to accept this choice, this part of who Sam was. Maybe there could be a happy medium after all.

A watery smile creased his face. "Hey," he said softly, trying to push himself up on the bed.

Dean eyed his efforts tentatively, moving cautiously to a chair next to the bed. "They told me it's lucky you have a hard head," he said.

Sam laughed a little, awkward and uncertain. "Yeah," he agreed. "Always was a trait of mine."

Tentatively, Dean took a seat. Sam watched him stretch out and try to appear relaxed. "Your friends were pretty worried about you," he said finally.

Sam tensed. "They were out there?"

Dean eyed him appraisingly. "They'll probably want to see you."

Nodding tightly, Sam tried not to look surprised, tried not to show how uncomfortable he was. An uncertain silence lapsed. He laughed a little, awkwardly. "I can't believe you came." He glanced up at his brother from under his overgrown bangs.

Dean's own features were taut. "You're still my brother," he said. "And you scared the crap out of me. Getting a call from a hospital like that--I worry enough about Dad, I don't like doing it about you, too."

Something like warmth spread painfully throughout his chest. The love he'd been missing, the family he'd wanted--how close he was and how much he'd walked away from. Maybe now...maybe it could be different. "Dean," he said softly. The emotions built up inside him, so deep and so real that Sam felt like he was drowning. There was so much to say, so much to explain, and he couldn't say any of it. His eyes stung suddenly, and he choked back his words, his apology. He laughed instead. "I'm so tired."

If Dean recognized the lost words, he didn't say anything. "Yeah, well, concussions do that to you, genius."

This time Sam's chuckle was real, ripping through his battered body. "Thanks, Dean," he said when his humor faded. "Thanks for coming."

Dean sighed, sinking back into the chair, the tension finally leaving his body in a rush. "No place I'd be, Sammy," he said, his voice as strong and reassuring as Sam remembered. "Except for maybe with that nurse down the hall. I didn't know they made scrubs that tight."

The joke was familiar, routine, so _Dean_, that Sam couldn't help but join in the act. "Then maybe you should go see her," Sam suggested. "You know, just so you don't lose your touch."

With raised eyebrows, Dean just looked at him. "Me? Lose my touch? I think you've been hit on the head a little too hard there."

"Then prove it," Sam challenged, just like when he was a kid.

Dean snorted. "I can't just leave you alone," he said. "You'll fall asleep."

Sam rolled his eyes, forgetting the pain in his head. "I'll survive five minutes, man."

Dean seemed to consider that, shrugging his shoulders lightly. "Well, then, maybe five minutes. I could use some coffee anyway. I don't think I really got much sleep last night and driving sort of did a number on me."

"Okay," Sam said.

Pushing himself out of his chair, Dean's eyes lingered on Sam a moment longer. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Sam assured him, hoping his voice sounded stronger than it felt. "I'm sure."

At that, Dean nodded shortly before heading out the door.

-o-

The coffee sucked and there really wasn't a cute nurse, but Dean didn't care. It didn't matter. Because Sam was listening to him, Sam was okay. All he had to do was let the kid know it was okay to come back and everything would go back to how it was. It would be like the last four months didn't happen.

He was humming when he came back in Sam's room, plopping comfortably in the chair. "The coffee here--is impressive," he said with a knowing nod. "We got to bust you out of this place."

Sam looked a little warily at him. "I'm sure," he said. "Typical Winchester family tradition. Leaving before they can catch you with a bill."

Dean grinned widely. "You haven't forgotten that much."

Sam just rolled his eyes.

"So," Dean said, leaning back in his chair. "Did you finally see the light?"

Sam looked at him, perplexed, through his bangs. "What light?"

"The light that says this life isn't for you, that says you're better off with people who can take care of you."

Dean's tone was light, his mood jovial. He wasn't in the mood to rub his little brother's mistakes in his face; he just wanted the kid back where he belonged.

The look on Sam's face, though, was hardly one of repentance and growth. He stared at Dean blankly. "Are you serious?"

"Sure," Dean said with a shrug. "This just proves how pointless this all is. Getting hurt playing football? Where's the value in that? When you could be saving _lives_, helping your _family_."

Sam's eyes flashed with anger and hurt. "Dean, this is my _life_." The words were choked and defiant.

Dean cringed.

It was happening again, he was losing Sam just like before. Only this time, Dean didn't want to keep his mouth shut. This time, he didn't want to tell Sam it was okay by his silence. This time, he had a voice, and he wanted it to be heard.

"You really still can't see how much of a waste this is? How much more _we_ need you? You really want to waste your time on _this_?"

Sam shook his head, looking desperate. "Dean, why don't you get this?"

"Get what?" Dean snapped back.

"Get that this is what I want."

"Yeah, well, I want us to be a family," Dean pointed out, crossing his arms across his chest indignantly.

Sam looked hurt, his eyes wide. "We _are_ a family. Me being here doesn't change that."

"No, family is about sticking by each other, watching each other's back."

"No, family is about putting the other person's needs and wants above your own."

Dean actually snorted at that. "Just like you, Sammy? The selfish one who ignored what both his dad and brother needed and did his own thing anyway?"

Sam's face fell and his shoulders sagged. "Dean," he said, his voice quiet. "I felt like I was suffocating back there. All the training, all the hunting—it was just too much. I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it and be happy. If I would have stayed, I would have been miserable. Don't you understand that?"

"Yeah, I understand," Dean said coldly. "I understand that we weren't enough for you, right, Sammy?"

"No, Dean, I wasn't enough," Sam seethed back. "I never was. I wasn't enough for dad--not a good enough hunter, not obedient enough, not quick enough. Nothing I did was enough. I wasn't enough for you--for all you protected me, Dean, you never told me it was okay to want more, you never understood that I needed more. Hell, I probably wasn't really good enough for Mom--not really worth dying for. It's what I've seen in Dad's eyes for years now, but no one will say it. I'm not enough, and I never will be. I can't please you, I can't please Dad, so I have to try to do something for myself."

The speech was wearing, and Dean watched as Sam sagged back when it was finished. He stared at his brother, stunned and hurt, before his jaw clenched. "I always looked out for you," Dean said back. "You were always my priority, and I protected you from Dad more times than you even knew."

Sam blinked slowly, sleepily from his bed. "I know," he said. "I just don't always want to be protected. I want to be supported."

It was too much. After all he'd done for Sam, after all the years he'd spent making sure Sam was happy and okay, and Sam told him that he wasn't supported? Anger pulsed in his veins and Dean suddenly sympathized with his father. Sam certainly did know how to push the right buttons. "And who was there at your high school play?" he charged, pushing out of his seat and pacing the room. "Your graduation? All those events--I was there, Sam. Don't say that I wasn't."

Sam deflated more, letting his head loll against the pillow. "So, why can't you understand this?"

Dean turned away again, disgusted. "What? You turning your back on me?"

"I'm not...," Sam's voice trailed off. "I never wanted..."

Dean looked back at his brother, finding the kid with his head turned away from him. "You never what? Wanted to hurt me? You left, didn't you?"

Sam's chest hitched, his head rolling back toward Dean. "I just...I wanted both...," he said, his words slurring now.

Dean's anger simmered as his concern spiked. He could be angry with the kid, undoubtedly, but in the end, his need to protect him would always surface on top. "Sam?" he asked, moving cautiously toward Sam's side.

Sam's eyelids cracked open then slid shut. "...ssssorry...always was the bad son..."

Leaning forward, Dean put a hand on Sam's. "Sam? Sammy?" he called.

Sam mumbled something unintelligible, turning his head away once again.

Dean was no doctor, but he knew that sudden sleepiness after a head injury was never a good thing. Sam would certainly be tired, but not to the point where he was drifting off in the middle of sentences. Not to the point when he wouldn't wake up.

Shaking Sam's arm, he called again. "Sam! Sam, wake up."

This time he garnered no response.

For a painful second, Dean froze. He had thought that his worst nightmare was Sam leaving. He'd replayed that night Sam walked out in his mind a thousand times, thinking of things to say to make him feel guilty, of things to say to make him feel okay, of things to say to make him stay.

He was wrong, though. That wasn't his nightmare. This was it--everything he'd ever been afraid of. He'd give anything for Sam to be alive and happy if it just meant that Sam was _alive_, period--even if it wasn't with his family.

He came to life, sprinting out of the room. "Hey!" he screamed into the hallway. "Hey, my brother needs some help!"

The blank stares he received were hardly comforting, but then he saw a face he recognized--wide brown eyes and a soft face. "Dean?" Patricia asked, her hand on the stethoscope around her neck. "Dean? What's wrong?"

"Sam and I were talking--and now--now he won't wake up--" he tried to explain, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the room.

She followed, her brow creased. Once inside, she brushed past him, moving to Sam's side. With sure and gentle hands, she reached down, jostling Sam's shoulder. "Sam? Sam, can you hear me?"

Just as before, there was no response. Dean chewed his thumbnail nervously, waiting for some kind of information, from some kind of response from Sam.

A frown crossed her face and she took her fist, rubbing her knuckles across Sam's sternum.

This time the response was marginal, but hardly coherent. Sam's hands flailed a bit, his head shift, and a moan escaping his lips. It took everything Dean had not to rush to his brother's side.

Patricia's eyes flicked upward toward the monitors, and she turned toward the door.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, snagging her arm. "What's wrong with him?"

"I need to get Sam's doctor," she explained, her voice too calm, too composed. Her eyes were sympathetic and professional, and Dean felt his heart fluttered. "Please, let me do my job."

There was a small voice in Dean's head that begged to be able to do _his_ job, to take care of Sammy like he'd always done, like he'd always been ordered to do.

But seeing Sam so prone, so unmoving, left him unnerved, and he could not resist as he was pushed out into the hallway.

He lingered in the door, watching, hoping, praying unconsciously. There was another nurse now, and a doctor, leaning over Sam, talking to him, talking to each other.

"SATs are in the 70s," Patricia said. The head of Sam's bed dropped flat and Sam didn't flinch.

The doctor's brow furrowed. "Renee, get me a number eight ET tube."

Movement swirled, steady and knowing. Positioning himself, the doctor tilted Sam's head back, opening his mouth easily with one hand.

It was Dean who had to flinch at what they put in Sam's mouth, and he grimaced when the tube was threaded down Sam's throat. Because throughout it all, his strong, defiant brother, let it all happen, didn't even attempt to fight back. Sam was many things, but he'd never been the type to roll over for anyone else. He would fight as long as he had breath left in his body.

Dean swallowed hard against that thought.

Patricia was squeezing a bag now, one attached to the tube in Sam's throat. The doctor was listening carefully to Sam's chest, moving the end of the stethoscope which each breath forced into Sam's lungs.

Dr. Lundvall said something softly to Patricia, who nodded back, and then the doctor went on examining Sam. Dean watched numbly as the man checked Sam's pupils, rubbed a fist across Sam's sternum. He waited for his brother to respond, to do something, but the response was minimal. With a creased brow, Dr. Lundvall made a notation on Sam's chart before turning back to Dean.

"What's wrong with him?" Dean all but demanded, his chest tight and his eyes stinging.

The doctor held out a placating hand. "Sam's oxygen levels fell low; we're not sure why."

Dean's face screwed up in confusion. "You're--you're not sure _why_? What does that mean? You're a _doctor_."

The man nodded patiently. "Head injuries are tricky things," he explained. "We're going to take him up for a CT scan to see if we can rule some things out. In order to help restore his oxygen levels, we've intubated him."

"That's the--that's the tube, right?" Dean's incredulity was barely contained.

"Yes, we put a tube in his throat and hooked him up to a ventilator to restore his oxygen levels. They've already rebounded."

"When will he wake up?"

"It's hard to say for sure," Dr. Lundvall explained. Before Dean could ask another incredulous question, the doctor continued, "I do believe at this point that Sam _will_ wake up. While he is somewhat comatose at the moment, he is showing some purposeful movements, which is a good sign. We'll know more after the tests. Now, please, you need to leave for a moment while respiratory gets the vent set up."

Just like that, Dean found himself back in the waiting room. This time, however, he didn't get his privacy.

"Dean," someone said, moving toward him eagerly. "Dean, hey. What's going on with Sam?"

Dean looked up, almost surprised. He recognized the boy looking at him from before. One of Sam's _friends_.

"Dean?" the guy said. "Come on, man, I've been waiting here for hours. Bryce and Adam went back to the dorm. But I needed to know."

Shaking his head, Dean said, "Who are you again?"

The guy looked a bit exasperated. "Eric. I'm Sam's roommate."

Dean nodded absently, but he couldn't bring himself to speak.

"What's wrong?" Eric asked, and Dean could feel the younger man's eyes studying him. "Did something happen to Sam?"

There was compassion in Eric's voice, but Dean didn't want that. He didn't need it. "It's none of your business," he said shortly, moving to brush past Eric for some privacy.

Eric didn't budge, moving himself purposefully into Dean's path. "Wait a second," he said. "Yes it is my business. I'm Sam's roommate; he's practically been my best friend for the last month or so."

Dean turned icy eyes to the college boy. "Yeah, well I've been Sam's _brother_ for his entire life."

Eric didn't even flinch. "Then his _brother _shouldn't have cut all ties with him for going to college."

The iciness turned to rage just like that, and without thinking, Dean was charging Eric, flinging him hard into the wall and getting into his face. "You know _nothing _about my family."

A few people were watching them now, uncertainly, but Dean ignored them. So did Eric. "Well, you must know nothing about Sam to do that to him."

Dean's hands trembled, still gripping Eric's shirt. "And you think you know my brother so well?"

Eric scoffed. "I know that your brother is about the nicest guy around. He'd do anything for anyone if they just asked. And college, man—it means everything to him. The time and energy he puts into it—it's almost scary devoted. And I know your brother wants more than anything else for his _family_ to support him. I don't even know how he does it. Manages the grades he pulls without any support whatsoever."

Dean's hands loosened and his anger became tinged with fear. He shook his head. "You don't _know _us."

Eric shrugged. "Maybe not. But what does Sam want that's so terrible? A life of his own? A little freedom? He told me you didn't get it." Eric shook his head in disbelief. "I thought he was nuts. Any family would want that in a son. Hell, my parents would trade me in for Sam Winchester in a second. And you treat him like a stupid runaway dog that doesn't know what's best for him."

His hands dropped to his sides and Eric straightened his shirt, his face set with anger. Dean shook his head. "There's a lot of things you don't understand," Dean told him in a low voice. "One thing you need to know is that Sam's _my_ brother, and that means more to me than just about anything else. Leaving was his decision, and he made it without thinking twice, without looking back. He's the one that walked out, not me."

Eric's look didn't waver. "He doesn't deserve this," he said.

Dean gave an incredulous chuckle. "Yeah, well, neither did I."

Before Eric could reply, Dean retreated to a chair, lowering himself into it to wait. After a moment, the younger boy returned to his own chair, turning himself purposefully away from Dean, but clearly having no intention of leaving.'

The action made part of Dean angry. What right did this guy have--who was he to stay around and wait for Sam. He wasn't family, he wasn't anybody. He was just some spoiled college kid who Sam had gotten stuck with. He meant nothing. He knew nothing.

But in all the angry words, in all the accusations, Dean could see past his own ego to see that Eric cared, that Eric knew something about Sam that he didn't.

That didn't mean he was right. What Eric didn't know, what Eric would never know, was what they did and why they did it. He wouldn't know about spirits and demons and things that go bump in the night. He wouldn't know that they only way the Winchester men survived was by being together, sticking together, and that was the trust that Sam had violated. No matter what his reasons, Sam had done the one unforgivable thing. He'd put himself first, above his father, above his mother, above the good of other people, above the brother that had given everything to Sam.

All Sam wanted was to go to college. All Dean wanted was for Sam to stay. One of them would end up crushed, and Sam had chosen to save himself once and for all. That hadn't changed and wouldn't change, and if Sam survived this, Dean knew they'd be right back where they began.

-o-

He'd been scared before, when he first got the call and when he first saw Sam laid out in the hospital, but the fear now was bitter and laced with a guilt he couldn't deny.

His brother's bed was flat now, and Sam was prone upon it. He still sported the IV and the monitors, but now a tube was strapped to his face, snaking its way up over Sam's head to someplace behind him.

Patricia lingered in the doorway. "It's not as bad as it looks. Remember, it's not a coma. He may even be able to hear you, he may just take awhile to wake up."

Dean nodded tightly and waited for the sound of her footsteps to retreat into the hallway before he approached Sam's bed again.

Sam still hadn't moved, nothing except for the rise and fall of his chest, which seemed wrong now.

Everything was wrong. It was wrong that he hadn't talked to Sam in four months, that he'd missed that much of his brother's life. It was wrong that Sam had gotten hurt in such a normal, mundane way. It was wrong that their dad wasn't here, probably wouldn't be here, even if Dean wasn't too scared to call him. It was wrong that Sam had been afraid to ask Dean to come here, even more wrong that Sam still wanted to stay.

It was all wrong. All of it. They needed each other, but neither knew how to find the compromise to get them there. They could never be family, not like they had been, not when John's orders rested firmly on both their heads: _walk out that door and you never come back_.

Sam wouldn't come back. And Dean wouldn't be able to bring him home, not because Sam didn't love him, but because Sam had been forced into a corner, and he had no options left. They each needed what they needed, disparate though those things may be, and sometimes there was no compromise, not in their father's stark world of black and white.

Dean would always love his brother. His brother would always love him. But Dean couldn't do this. He wouldn't do this. He'd spent too many years in the middle, running interference, hoping for some miraculous bonding that never came. Would never come. Some things weren't for him to fix, and this was one of them. There was no neutrality in a war, and he'd been kidding himself to think that the battles between John and Sam were anything less than that.

Either he could stay here with Sam, and leave his father and hunting behind. Or he could go back to his father, and leave Sam to his normal life and his normal friends.

It was time for Dean to take sides. Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't do anything else.

There were no words he could say to Sam to make his brother change his mind. There were no words he could say to his dad to move him from his position. All Dean could do was stick by one of them, make his choice, and learn to move on.

He looked at his brother, young and youthful and determined. Sam had made his choice. A choice that took him away from Dean.

He remembered his father, hurt and stubborn, but human. His dad. Their bond was growing stronger; Dean had so much left to learn.

With a sigh, Dean knew in the end there was no other option. He was a hunter, through and through. It was who he was, who he'd always wanted to be. He couldn't walk out on that, no more than he could walk out on the father he'd depended on, he'd tried to please entire life.

He'd just have to keep Sam safe from a distance.

Placing a gentle hand on Sam's head, he let his fingers run through Sam's hair, remembering younger times, simpler times, when this was all he'd cared about.

He didn't know when he'd get to do this again. If he'd ever get to do it again.

"Sorry, Sammy," he whispered. "You made your choice. I have to make mine. I'll always be here for you, but I can't stay here. No more than you can come back with me."

It was the first time Dean had really ever understood--about himself and about Sam. For as much as he loved his brother, they were different people on different paths. Dean could only hope that someday those two worlds would bridge, that someday their father would let them bridge.

Until then, this was how it had to be. Making sure Sam was okay, nothing else. Once Sam was awake, once he was well--then Dean would have no reason left to stay.

With a sigh, he sank into the chair next to his brother's bed and began to wait.

-o-

He awoke to the sound of movement. Nothing too frantic, just subtle sounds of a struggle.

Rubbing his eyes, Dean remembered where he was, his eyes snapping fully open to check on his brother.

His little brother was still on the bed, still with the tube down his throat, but he was moving now. More than that, Sam's chest was heaving, his arms flailing in distress.

For a brief second, Dean feared the worse--that Sam had taken some tragic turn, that Sam was going to die after all of this. Then, he realized Sam's eyes were open.

Sam was awake.

Dean was almost standing when Patricia came back in. "I heard the vent alarm go off," she said, going to Sam's side. A smile brightened her face as she looked down. "Hey, guess who's up?"

At this, Dean tensed, afraid to be hopeful. "Is he...is he okay?"

Patricia ignored his question, instead leaning over Sam. "Easy, Sam," she soothed. "You have a tube in your throat to help you breathe. The doctor should be coming and when he does we can talk about taking that out."

Dean watched as Sam's wide eyes turned, strickened , upon her. There was pleading there, and confusion, and probably pain--things he never wanted his brother to feel. Things he couldn't prevent Sam from suffering.

With a smile, Patricia ran a hand through his hair. "Just relax and let the vent do its thing, okay? You're going to be just fine."

It was a struggle for Sam, but Dean saw him attempt to comply, and it amazed Dean how much his brother could endure, how much he would endure if someone only asked him.

Dr. Lundvall promptly arrived, brushing by Dean to Sam's side. As the doctor spoke in low, soothing tones, Dean felt himself shrinking back until his back was against the wall. The doctor was coaching Sam, having him cough, and Dean saw the tube get expelled, leaving Sam heaving and gasping in its wake.

"There you go," the doctor said. "You're going to be raw for awhile. Do you understand?"

Even from his spot, Dean could see his brother nod.

Dean listened to the exchange that followed, a series of questions and tests, all of which Dean knew were to gauge if Sam had suffered any damage. He listened carefully to the answers; though his brother's voice was strained, the answers were clear and coherent, and Patricia glanced back at him, a reassuring smile on her face.

Sam was okay. His brother was fine.

That was all he needed to know. It still felt like he was dying, slowly and painfully, but he'd do it anyway. He survived once, he'd do it again.

Resolved, he walked away from Sam's room, ready to move on.

-o-

It was several minutes before Sam remembered his brother. The world had been a mess of sensations and voices, and it took all his focus just to answer the doctor's questions. His throat felt worse than it ever had, and his headache had yet to abate. It was like he'd been thrown against a wall by an angry poltergeist, and it took him long enough to remember that it'd been nothing more than a football game.

A football game that gave him a serious concussion and probably a bruise to the brain for whatever that was worth. A game that had brought his brother there.

Dr. Lundvall had left, signing his chart with a grin, and Patricia was adjusting a few monitors when Sam realized that Dean should still be here. His brother was always there when he got hurt, always there when he woke up. And they hadn't been done with their conversation.

"Where's my brother?" he rasped.

She looked at him, cocking her head. "He was just here a minute ago," she said. Then she frowned, glancing around the room. "He must have stepped out. Do you want me to find him for you?"

Sheepishly, Sam nodded his head. Being at college didn't change the fact that he wanted his brother there. Nothing would change that, no amount of pride.

She smiled. "Just give me a second, hon."

He watched her go, a weak smile on his face. Dean had come. His brother had dropped everything and left. Despite the fact that they didn't see eye to eye, there had to be a way to make this work. Sam wanted that more than anything--college and his family. Or at least Dean. Dean was at least willing to listen, so maybe someday Dean _would_ understand.

That didn't mean that Sam wouldn't have to apologize. He'd hurt his brother--that much had been apparent. His brother felt just as betrayed as Sam did. If it meant getting Dean back in his life, it was an apology Sam was willing to give.

The door opened and Sam straightened eagerly. His shoulders fell when he saw Patricia there. She looked confused. "I could have sworn he was right there," she said. "He was in the room when you woke up, while the doctor assessed you. Maybe he went down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat. I'm sure he'll be right back."

But Dean wasn't at the cafeteria, Sam knew that. Dean wasn't anywhere in the hospital. Dean was gone. Gone back to the hunt, back to dad, back to the life Sam had left.

"When I see him, I'll let him know you're looking for him. Your friend, though--the one who came in with you. He's still here. He'd like to see you."

Sam nodded absently, barely hearing her. He didn't notice her leave the room--he was too numb to notice.

His brother had been here, and now he was gone. Left, just like Sam left. There wouldn't be a compromise. Injuries were the only way to break the distance. Unless Sam was dying, he might as well be dead already as far as his family was concerned.

Gritting his teeth, Sam tried not to cry. He should have seen this coming. He probably deserved this. His dad hadn't been lying that night--leaving meant he wasn't one of them any more. Sam had made his choice, and he couldn't really blame Dean for making his.

Damn it all if it didn't hurt even worse this time.

He was surprised when the door opened again, even more surprised when he saw his roommate standing there. Eric was smiling, big and awkward. "Winchester, they finally let me come see you," he said.

Sam smiled back, or tried to, but the action left him feeling empty.

Edging closer to the bed, Eric scratched the back of his head. "So, how you feeling?"

"Okay," Sam lied, more by rote than anything else.

"Quite a hit you took," Eric commented with a nod. "Freaked us all out."

"Sorry," Sam apologized.

"For what? Winning the game for us?"

Sam looked up at this, surprised. "I caught the ball?"

Eric snorted. "Caught it and held it all the way down, even when you were out cold, man. It was damn impressive if I do say so myself."

The praise seemed faint in light of his loss, nearly insignificant. But the look in Eric's eyes, the relief in his voice--Eric wasn't family, Eric wasn't Dean, but he cared about Sam.

He had nothing else to build on except that--what little he had at college was all he had left.

It would have to be enough.

_end_


End file.
